


hot photographers are made for stalking: a study of the manhattan lifestyle

by diskhorse



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Backstories, Angst and Humor, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, marvin and whizzer can both be jerks but they're trying, there's some fluff later on too so don't worry ;)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diskhorse/pseuds/diskhorse
Summary: Of three things Marvin is certain: he’s over his ex, he’s not lonely at all, and Whizzer Brown left New York City more than four years ago and didn’t look back.One shitty bus ride and an impromptu walk past the Metropolitan Museum of Art manage to change all that in an instant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so...this began as a tiny idea and has become something of a monster. i hope to get the chapters out on a semi-regular basis. this idea came to me in the middle of math class and immediately ran out of control so...hope you all enjoy :D  
> oh yeah, and that title IS supposed to sound like 'these boots are made for walking.'

Bussing in New York sucks.  

Marvin’s had enough experience with this in the past to last a lifetime, back when he attended NYU Law and didn’t yet own a car.  Being stuck in rush-hour traffic in a cramped metal deathtrap while the mid-July sun beats down through the closed windows is something he hasn’t had to deal with for a while.  

But some moron had to go crashing their car in the parking garage _today_ of all days and Marvin’s stuck riding home on the afternoon bus.  And, of course, on a _Friday._ When Jason is supposed to be over by seven, and it’s 6:44, and he’s not even halfway home.

He’s been on this bus for an hour.

Eventually, it all becomes too much.  A _baby_ starts crying, and Marvin’s about ready to stalk down to the front and wring it’s little neck.  Deciding he can’t actually do that - getting arrested is _not_ an option today - he pulls the cord and gets off at 5th and 77th.  It’ll be about a ten minute walk to his street, but anything is better than the contraption he just managed to escape.

The bus stop at 77th street happens to let off directly in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so there are plenty of tourists to dodge as he walks down the sidewalk.  They seem to think it’s the natural thing to stand in the middle of the path, as if people don’t walk there, snapping pictures with their phones and stupidly expensive cameras of the front of the museum.

Marvin hardly glances at it as he walks by.  He supposes he does understand what the fuss is about, but he’s grown desensitized to it over the years, after seeing it hundreds of times on the way to and from work.  The inside is much nicer than the outside, anyway.  But this is what you get when you buy an apartment in the Upper East Side.  Tourists clogging the city every summer and winter.

There’s even a professional photographer out front.  At least that’s what he looks like, judging by the tripod and the giant (giant equals high quality these days) camera positioned upon it.  He doesn’t seem to be taking shots of anyone in particular, just the crowds entering and exiting the museum.  It’s not uncommon; the MMOA puts out new advertisements every summer and they need pictures for it.

There’s something about the photographer though, that makes Marvin slow down a little.  Some asshole swerves around him, grumbling under their breath about shitty tourists, but Marvin doesn’t even acknowledge the comment.  He’s too busy trying to place that damn photographer.

He’s…strangely _familiar._ It’s too far away to see his face clearly but it’s just something about the build of his body, the broad shoulders and narrow waist, his long legs, that reminds him of someone.

It isn’t until he takes into account what the guy is _wearing_ that it all falls into place.  The black leather jacket over a purple shirt, jeans with the cuffs rolled up - it’s something _Whizzer_ would wear.

 _Could it really…_ Marvin squints against the sun, trying to focus on the guy’s face, but again, it’s too far to many any features out.  He shakes his head vigourously.  _No.  It can’t be.  He’s gone. He’s been gone for_ years.

But even as he thinks this, Marvin finds himself stepping closer, approaching the base of the wide stone stairs.  He doesn’t really know what he’s planning - or if it’s even a good idea.  As improbable as it is, what if he _does_ end up face to face with his ex boyfriend?  What exactly is he gonna do then?

Punch him?  Yell at him?  _Make out with_ him?  Each of those options seems at least mildly inappropriate to do on the front steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Just as he sets his foot on the first step, his watch beeps, signalling the start of the next hour.  Marvin swears under his breath; he’s late.  It’s bad enough on its own, but now Trina and Mendel are gonna have to wait with Jason inside his apartment until he shows, and see the piles of mess he has all over the place.

Marvin might be able to _live_ in a bachelor pad, but there’s no way in hell he wants his ex wife and her new husband to see it.

He spins around and hightails it to 84th, but not without throwing one last glance over his shoulder.  The photographer’s face is completely obscured at this point, hidden by the camera as he looks through the viewfinder.  Marvin’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that he never saw his face clearly.

* * *

 

After dinner, Marvin does the dishes.  It’s a shock to himself and all around him, that he does anything related to housework.  But he’s kind of forced to do this shit now that he lives by himself.  Jason tells him to just use the dishwasher, but Marvin does them by hand anyway.  His excuse is that the dishwasher never fully works.

The sad truth may actually be that Marvin is a lonely bastard who does them manually because he has nothing else to do.

He’s going through the monotonous motions of _rinse, scrub, dry, repeat_ when the 1989 Batman theme, his ring tone, breaks the silence, startling him badly enough to jump almost a full inch off the ground.  Marvin’s just happy Jason isn’t in the room to mock him.

The caller ID says _Cordelia,_ and the oh-so-flattering close up of her face (zoomed in enough to see her nose hair) flashes on the screen.  Marvin can’t help but narrow his eyes.  The lesbians hardly ever call.  They prefer text.  They’d only be calling if it was A) an emergency or B) a prank.  Pranks happen more than anyone might expect from two grown women.

Marvin decides to try his luck, maybe keep up the pretence that he indeed has friends.  He dries his fingers on a towel and picks up the phone.

“Hi,” he says.

“Marvin! Hi!” Cordelia’s voice, always so chipper, surges through the line.  He winces at how loud it is. “Watcha doing?  Having a good night?”

The questions are far too general to be coming from someone like Cordelia, who normally begins every conversation with something like “ _Charlotte wants to get drunk tonight, you in?”_ or _“My client today was such a bitch, oh my god.”_

Ninety percent convinced she’s hiding something, Marvin says warily, “Washing dishes.”

“Huh.  Well, that’s boring.  How’s Jason?  He’s at your place tonight, right?”

“What do you want?” he asks instead of answering.  He cradles the phone in the crook of his neck, plunging his hands back in the lukewarm water and grabbing another dish.

“Jeez, that’s rude,” Cordelia says blandly. “Can’t I call just because?  We _are_ friends, Marvin.”

Marvin tenses his jaw.  There is something _too_ sweet, _too_ innocent about her voice.  She’s _definitely_ hiding something. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t even have to ask, because she drops the act immediately. “Whizzer’s back in New York,” she says.

And it’s something he suspected, _really -_ that guy at the MMOA had given him just too much deja vu for it to be a coincidence - but nonetheless the news sends a plate slipping from between his wet fingers and in the next second it shatters on the linoleum floor. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “Hold on.” He puts the phone on the counter before Cordelia can say another word.

Jason pops down the hall a moment later, headphones hanging around his neck, looking moderately concerned. “What was -” His voice cuts off abruptly.  Then, deadpan, “Wow.”

Marvin can’t deal with Jason’s attitude right now, just after Cordelia dropped the biggest bomb of the last - four years, anyway. “Can you get me the dustpan?” Marvin asks his son. “It’s in the front closet.  Maybe.” He hopes it is.  He hasn’t used it since he moved in, it feels like.

Jason heaves a sigh at his father’s incompetence, but nonetheless shuffles off to the foyer to collect the dustpan.  Thankfully, it’s where Marvin suggested, and with a muttered “Thanks,” he goes about sweeping up his mess and Jason returns to his bedroom.

Marvin dumps the shards in the trash can and picks up the phone. “You still there?” he says.

“Mhmm,” Cordelia hums. “You were so surprised you dropped a dish?  What are we, in the movies?”

Marvin ignores the comment, moves back to the more pressing issue at hand. “What do you mean ‘Whizzer’s back?’”

Cordelia makes a displeased noise at his rude tone. “I mean he’s back,” she says impatiently. “He’s got some photoshoot with Art Department here.  He’s around upper Manhattan for something like three weeks.”

“Staying with you guys, I’m guessing?” It’s only natural; he had stayed with them when he was in college, too.  Marvin leans against the counter, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.  Oh, this was _not_ how he wanted the evening to go.

“Yep.”

There’s a brief lapse into silence.  Marvin stares into the dirty, foamy dishwater and at the pots and pans and bowls he still has to wash.  It’s amazing how only two people can create such a mess, and suddenly the prospect of cleaning it up is a whole lot less appealing.  He mostly just wants to go to bed.

Eventually, he says, “Why are you telling me this?”

Because, really, what does she expect him to _do_ with this information?  It feels unnecessarily cruel; he’d actually managed to get semi-over Whizzer in the last little while.  There’s no use in tearing open old wounds when nothing can come out of it.

Cordelia doesn’t seem to think so. “Well, I was waiting for _him_ to call,” she says, “But he definitely wasn’t going to, so I took matters into my own hands.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because you two need to get your shit sorted.”

A bitter scoff is torn from his throat before he can stop it. “I don’t have _anything_ to sort out with him,” he says coldly.  It’s true; “Whizzer made it clear how he felt when he _left._   We don’t have anything to talk about.”

There’s a brief pause as his words sink in.  Cordelia’s voice is unnaturally soft when she says, “You don’t know everything, Marvin.”

“What does that mean?” Marvin snaps, unable to tamp down a sudden surge of anger.  He can’t tolerate vague bullshit tonight.  There’s too much to handle already.

Cordelia doesn’t address his question, just says, “He’s in Central Park until Friday.  Just talk to him.  I’m serious.” 

The line goes dead, dial tone ringing in his ear.  Marvin stares at the _call ended_ screen before shutting off his phone.  With some degree of effort, he forces himself back to the dishes, the conversation still replaying incessantly in his head. 

Whizzer’s back in New York.  So he _had_ been out of the city.  Sometimes Marvin thought he’d stuck around Manhattan, but managed to avoid Marvin so obsessively that they would never run into each other again, even by chance.  This revelation, of course, bared the question: where _had_ he been? 

Most likely with his family.  They lived all the way on the west coast, in California.  His parents and brother.  Whizzer had come to New York to attend NYU, but he’d graduated by the time he skipped town, so it was entirely possible that he’d gone back home.

Now, though, he was back.  Working with Art Department, whatever that was.  Cordelia mentioned a photoshoot.  Probably some photography agency.  It sounds almost impressive.

So Whizzer had actually gone through with it and became a photographer.  Marvin didn’t think that would ever happen.  Sure, it had been his major, but he’d never seemed dedicated enough to anything, let alone getting a career as a professional photographer.  But clearly he’d done it, and he got a job with some big-name photography studio, and he’s back again in Manhattan.  And if it weren’t for Cordelia, Marvin would have been blissfully unaware of all of this.

She seems to have her mind set on getting them to talk.  That was clearly the whole reason why she called earlier: _talk to him._

The whole thing is idiotic, though, because if there was any time to “get their shit sorted,” as she’d so eloquently put it, it was four years earlier, right after everything happened.  Whizzer’s sudden drop off the face of the earth had prevented any of that from happening.

 _You don’t know everything, Marvin,_ Cordelia’s voice reminds him.  Yeah, no shit, but it couldn’t kill her to be more specific.  Although, Cordelia enjoys fucking with Marvin.  She considers it payback for how much of a dick he was when they first met.  That could explain the stupidly cryptic way she’d phrased things tonight.  

Truth is, he mostly deserves it, so he doesn’t really complain.  To her face.

He manages to finish up the dishes without breaking anything else, and retreats to the living room for the night.  It’s Friday, so it should be movie night with Jason, but he’d asked to postpone it to Saturday.  Something about internet friends, Marvin didn’t know what, but he had agreed anyway.  He agrees to anything Jason asks these days.  Probably not the best parenting method, but he’ll do anything if it prevents Jason from hating him again.

With his original plan of watching Star Wars together for the millionth time thrown out the window, Marvin tunes into Jeopardy and lets Alex Trebek drone on in the background as he lets himself keep thinking about Whizzer - just like he always has.  Whizzer has always been a source of distraction, be it when he was still just the cute babysitter to the cause of many sleepless nights months later.  

He really was smitten from the start, as Charlotte used to tease him about.  She has laid off on those jokes since.  There’s no real fun to be derived any more now that Whizzer’s out of the picture.

Only…he’s not.  Not anymore.  For the first time in however long, he’s _back._ Back within Marvin’s reach.  Close enough to talk to.  It’s what Cordelia - and by extension, Charlotte (they always do things as a singular unit) - want.  And as much as he hates to admit it, he sort of wants it too.

Marvin’s got a lot of questions, is the thing.  The main one being, _“Why did you leave?”_

It is the thing that’s continuously haunted him for the last four years.  And it’s not like he doesn’t understand the concept of _space -_ everyone needs that after a breakup.  It’s different, though, to leave an entire state with no warning other than a voicemail on your ex-wife’s cell phone and proceed to cut off all contact.  Jason had been miserable for weeks afterward.  He’d only been seven at the time, and had wondered why his so-called “best friend” Whizzer had left without even saying goodbye.

Marvin’s anger at Whizzer for hurting _him_ is nothing compared to how angry he is that he hurt Jason.

It’s not like he’s an idiot; he’s completely aware that he’s made his own mistakes (even if it took a broken heart and several tongue-lashings from his lesbian friends to figure that out), but at least he stuck around to fix his.  If only Whizzer had stuck around so he could fix things between them, too.

Marvin grabs his phone, contemplating whether or not he should take Cordelia up on her advice and talk to Whizzer.  He’s around for three weeks.  If he makes the first move, maybe, possibly, things between them can be a little less…

Well, maybe there will be something there _at all_.  Right now there’s nothing but distance and silence.

It’s unlikely, but anything’s possible.

Before he can second guess himself, he unlocks his phone and shoots off a text to Cordelia.  _Where’s Whizzer at on Monday?_ He sends a second one moments later.  _Be specific._ Knowing Cordelia, she’d just say _Central Park_ , not remembering that Central Park is something like two miles long.

A response comes in less than a minute later.  _Sheep’s Meadow :D_

Okay, well, _Sheep’s Meadow_ is also vague, but it’ll do.  Whizzer’s a pretty recognizable person, what with his height and pastel-infused wardrobe, and he _will_ be the only one with the expensive photographer’s camera, so he shouldn’t have trouble finding him if he chooses to go.

The jury’s still out on that decision.  

Yeah, Whizzer was a jerk.  And yeah, so was he.  But there’s denying that there were times with Whizzer he can look back on fondly.  He often does, when it’s late at night and he’s lonely, and he remembers certain things about his ex lover that _still_ make his heart clench.

Maybe the good _does_ outweigh the bad.

“Dad?”

Jason’s voice shakes him out of his reverie, and he glances over his shoulder.  His son is standing in the doorframe, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m done, uh, with my friends,” he begins. “And…we were gonna watch Star Wars and stuff.  Do you still wanna…”

Marvin’s grinning before Jason even finishes the sentence, and pats the space on the couch next to him.  Jason drops down on the cushion and as he pulls up Netflix on the TV, Marvin resolves to make up his mind in the morning.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter You-Know-Who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short chapter, but a lot of you seemed excited so I decided to update relatively fast. don't worry, the next chapter will be up next week :D

Marvin has been stalking Whizzer for three days now.

Since Marvin is lonely and has no social or romantic life, he has nothing better to do on the days he doesn’t have Jason.  Each night, he texts Cordelia and asks where Whizzer will be stationed the following day.  It’s always a specific location in Central Park.  And Marvin dutifully heads over there the next afternoon once he gets off work.

Cordelia always sends another text as well, something along the lines of _You gonna actually talk to him this time?_ Marvin just so happens to miss it whenever it comes in.

He’s also managed to find Whizzer’s Instagram account.  There's a link to it on his Art Department profile.  The pictures there are a weird assortment of seemingly random things; some hoodie hanging from the top of a chain-link fence, a bay window looking out at a green forest (where the fuck was this taken?), a dark, rainy street where the only colour present is what appears to be a neon yellow dog collar lying on the pavement.

Marvin’s sure there's supposed to be some symbolic meaning behind it, but he doesn’t get it.  He’s never really understood artistic photography.  He took an art course when he was in high school and it was during the photography unit he finally decided to drop the class, because he "failed to understand the artist's intentions." Fuck off, Ms. Webber.  At least his degree led to something other than teaching high schoolers for the rest of his life.

The next day goes off like any other.  Marvin gets off work at five thirty, and heads down to Central Park for his regular allotment of Whizzer Watching.  Today’s destination: Shakespeare Gardens.

If he thinks logically - which he does; he’s a very logical person - he knows he won’t actually find Whizzer there.  It’s a relatively large place, the odds are too unlikely.  It’s not like Cordelia said if he’d be in any particular zone.  

Still, he goes, because Marvin hasn’t been in a long while and he genuinely enjoys being there in the relative quiet. (It’s never fully quiet.  Too many obnoxious out-of-towners and the constant buzz of traffic along Central Park West).

Marvin’s never been the type of person to just look at flowers and observe the nature around him (which could be defeating the purpose of the entire place, but sue him), so he makes quick work of walking through the Garden, managing to ruin several pictures by walking right through them in the process.  Whatever, it's not his fault their families decided to take up the whole path with their photo op.

He only pauses for a minute on the bridge.  It’s sunny here, and the tourists have cleared the area for now, leaving it to himself.  The water below is an ugly pea green, and the air stinks the way it typically does around ponds, but it’s tolerable enough.

In this moment he allows himself to think.  The first words that come to the front of his mind are _What am I doing?_

He has to admit that his brain has a point.  Spending his free time after work following his ex around like he’s straight out of Fatal Attraction is more than a little bit pathetic.  Even Charlotte thinks so.  Yesterday, she send him a text that simply said _:/_ with no context.  No context was _needed_ for him to understand the meaning _._

He knows he should talk to Whizzer, but he somehow can’t bring himself to.  It’s as if there’s some magnetic repulsion between the two of them that prevents them from coming within a ten-metre radius.

Or, more likely, Marvin is a self-destructive masochist and has a need to see how Whizzer is functioning without him.  Maybe he just needs to see that Whizzer’s moved on, that he’s got a job and a new life and is happy on his own.  Maybe this will convince _Marvin_ to move on too, if he sees Whizzer’s perfectly fine without him.  And if that means watching him creepily from a distance, so be it.

God, he needs to get out of here.  This whole place is making him self-reflect too much.  He turns to leave, and manages to immediately walk straight into someone.

Stumbling back, he grabs the bridge railing, and raises his head to say something snippy at whatever moron wasn’t looking where they were going.  The words die on his tongue as soon as he sees who it is.

Whizzer clearly hadn’t been watching where he was going - in fact, his eyes are still locked on the screen of his camera.  It’s smaller compared to the clunker he’s been lugging around the last few days.  But who cares, that’s irrelevant, because Whizzer is _right fucking there!_

“Sorry, man,” he’s saying.  Whizzer’s voice sounds exactly how Marvin remembers; low and clear with a slight western twang to it. “I didn’t see you -” He looks up on this, and stumbles over the words as he takes in exactly who it is standing before him.  His eyes widen and he says, “Holy shit.”

 _Holy shit_ indeed.

It’s a miracle in itself that Marvin manages to eek out a tiny, “Yeah,” in response.  This is followed up by a horribly awkward silence, as the two men look at each other face-to-face for the first time in four years.  It’s ironic, how this is set up almost like a meet-cute from a rom-com - two attractive people accidentally running into each other on a bridge in a garden and proceeding to drink up one other with their eyes.  

Reality truly bites.

Another thing:  Whizzer looks good.  He looks damn good.  Since university, he’s lost some of the baby fat that was still clinging to his face, and his frame has filled out some to go along with his height.  His hair’s longer and looks fluffier, swept in a perfect quiff.  The only thing left over from the days of ravaging acne are faint scars on his forehead and cheeks.

Essentially, he’s still hot.  For all his flaws, Whizzer being unattractive was never one of them.  Marvin starts to sweat a little and tries to think of what to say.

He’d thought about what he would do if he happened to be faced with this exact scenario  _hundreds_ of times, it felt like.  But now that the situation is actually upon him, he’s drawing a complete blank.

Eventually, Whizzer says, “Well, bye,” and moves to walk away.

This fills Marvin with an adrenaline rush that stems mainly from panic.  No, this can’t happen.  He hadn’t planned on their first interaction going like this, but now that it has he isn’t about to let this opportunity slip away.  There’s no telling if he’ll get another.

He puts his hand on Whizzer’s chest and cries, “Wait!” 

It’s unnecessarily loud considering Whizzer is _right in front of him._   This manages to startle him, but it does what it was supposed to and Whizzer stops in his tracks.

Another ten seconds pass.  Whizzer impatiently prompts, “Yeah?”

Marvin shakes his head.  “Yeah, uh…” Trying to regain some footing in this conversation, he says the first thing he can think of. “So, the weather’s nice, huh?” 

He internally winces the moment the words leave his mouth.

“Well, I don’t know,” Whizzer responds, turning his head in all directions with exaggeratedly slow movements. “It seems pretty nice to me, given we’re outside and all.”

There’s the Whizzer he knows.  All snark and sass.  It’s nice to see him resurface; it makes things feel a little more natural.  Even if his laughter _is_ at Marvin’s expense.  Marvin laughs nervously.

“Look, Marvin, it was nice talking -” Yeah right.  They’d barely exchanged ten words. “ - but I have to get back to -”

He's not listening.  All he can here are the incessant voices in his head, chanting,  _Say it.  Do it.  Say it!_

“Let’s talk.” He blurts it out before he can have second thoughts. “We should talk.  Catch up.  You know?”

Whizzer’s expression contorts and it makes him seem like he’s sucking on a lemon. “Uh…" he says, and it doesn't sound like a good sign. "Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because…you know…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely, trusting Marvin to fill in the blanks himself.

He does.  _Because…we’re exes.  Because…you and I ended our relationship on an unbelievably shitty note.  Because…I don’t like you._   He’s not really liking any of those options.

In Whizzer’s silence, Marvin starts nervously scratching at the inside of his forearms, a habit he’s never managed to kick.  He can feel Whizzer eyeing him.  When they were still together, he’d always used to grab his wrist and testily say, “Stop doing that.”  Marvin would shoot back something about his nail-biting tic.  Whizzer would shoot back something along the lines of _“Touché.”_

Classic banter.  None of that anymore.  Just stilted, awkward dialogue and silence.  Marvin hates this.

Whizzer apparently takes pity on him, sees the dejection on his face, because he sighs. “Okay, fine,” he mutters. “But not now.  I gotta get back to work." He's edging away as he says this, visibly trying to distance himself from this conversation. "You can call the lesbians, I guess.  I'm staying with them while I'm here."

"I know."

"What?"

 _Shit._ "Just a guess," he hurriedly covers. "You stayed with them when you were last here, is all."

"Okay," Whizzer says slowly, only sounding mildly concerned that Marvin's been shadowing him the whole time he's been back. "I get off work at seven.  But call before nine."

Marvin doesn’t question it.  It seems Whizzer hasn’t moved past his days of clubbing til three in the morning.  Whatever, it doesn’t concern him anymore.  He’s more disappointed that Whizzer said to call the _lesbians_ rather than him directly.  But then again, it’s probably not normal to keep your ex’s phone number saved after four years of no contact.  _Yikes._

Whizzer moves around him, and Marvin doesn’t stop him this time.  They exchange a quick, “Bye,” and Whizzer crosses the bridge and disappears around the corner.  

Now that the adrenaline from the whole encounter is wearing off, Marvin feels shaky and unstable.  Well, shit.  He kind of fucked that up.  Not only did he make a fool of himself, he almost revealed to Whizzer that he's been a total creep for the last few days.  Only just now has it occurred to him how weird he's been acting.  

In a way, he's pretty grateful.  This surprise encounter forced him into the position where they actually  _had_ to talk, and it honestly could've been worse.  

He can't help the grin crossing his face.  It’s only a talk - a _phone call_ at that.  Nothing huge, and there’s no telling if Whizzer will hang up on him or even pick up in the first place.  But it’s _something,_ and that’s enough for now.

Jason would be embarrassed by his so-called "dad-ness" if he were here, but he's not, so there's no shame when Marvin gives himself a fist-pump, hissing out a triumphant _“Yes!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, the response on this fic has been so amazing!! all the comments I've received have been so sweet. hope you really enjoy the rest of what's to come. I've basically planned out what's going to happen, just gotta WRITE it, so the updates will come pretty quick! hopefully one a week. Again: my tumblr is jackeddoritos :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation long incoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOSH YOU GUYS!!!! I'm so sorry this update took FOREVER. Just, life and stuff, y'know? Got distracted with school and all but I SWEAR! I'm gonna finish this. I like where this is going, and all of your comments are SO GREAT AND INSPIRING. Thank you all!!!!!

From what Marvin knows, which isn’t whole lot, Whizzer and Cordelia have known each other most of their lives.  They both lived in LA when they were kids, and met at some community theatre, and became friends immediately despite Cordelia being a couple years older.  When she moved to New York for culinary school, they kept in touch.  And when Whizzer came too, having been accepted into NYU, he moved in with her and her then-girlfriend, now-wife Charlotte.

He was still living with them after Marvin met him, halfway through his second year of college.  And it didn’t look like he _planned_ on going anywhere.  He was living with his best friend and his newfound-other-best friend, and if anyone asked, their only explanation was that splitting the rent three ways was really convenient, especially between three students laden with debt and working with minimum-wage salaries.

Besides, Whizzer was out of the house till past midnight most days.  He was never really a third wheel.

Essentially, the lesbians’ apartment is like a second home to Whizzer, so it’s only natural that he’s staying with them again.  Marvin himself has been there numerous times - more since Whizzer left.  Before, he only went over when they _couldn’t_ be at his place.  At that time, he was nothing to Charlotte and Cordelia but Whizzer’s fuck-buddy-semi-boyfriend.

They only really became friends after Whizzer skipped town.  And even then it took some time.  

Trina and Jason weren’t the only ones he had to apologize to.

* * *

For the fourth time in however many days, Marvin stares at his phone, stomach balled up with anxiety.  The lesbians’ home phone number is punched in, and all he has to do is hit the little phone icon, but he _can’t do it._

Only, he has to, because if he doesn’t do it tonight he doesn’t think he _ever_ will.  He’s already stalled long enough.  Whizzer’s probably already forgotten Marvin was _meant_ to call him, he’s taken such a long-ass time to work up the balls to do it.

 _You’re a pussy,_ says his Inner Whizzer, who only appears in situations when he’s being obnoxious and/or a pansy.  

He hates Inner Whizzer.  So, before he can hesitate again, he finally hits _call._ The phone rings twice before the third is cut off with a _click._ Marvin swallows hard.

“Jeez,” Whizzer says. “I was starting to think you’d never call.”

“How’d you know it was me?” asks Marvin, the first thing he can think of.

Whizzer snicker carries across the line. “There’s a thing called caller ID,” he drawls. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“I have, in fact,” Marvin says flatly, refusing to let Whizzer bully him over the phone.  He can practically hear Whizzer’s eyes rolling.

Whizzer tsks _._ “Now, now,” he warns. “Don’t get touchy.” 

Marvin notes that he seems a hell of a lot more at ease on the phone than he did in the park.  This only adds to his mounting anxiety.  They’ve been on the phone for less than a minute and Whizzer’s already managed to sass him twice.  It’s a bit much, even for Whizzer.

“You wanted to talk,” Whizzer says after a brief silence. “So, what’s up?”

Marvin forces himself to speak before he can hesitate. “We should catch up, do you think?  Talk?  Sort out our shit?”

Pause. “Like, _that_ shit?  From…four years ago?” He sounds incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“Over the phone?  That’s a shit idea.”

There he goes again.  Classic Whizzer. “ _Au contraire_ to your opinion, I’m not a moron,” he says. “I was thinking coffee or something.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.  Like Starbucks.  The one close to the MMOA.”

Whizzer’s reluctance is practically audible in his hesitation. “I don’t know - I’m kinda busy with work and all.”

Hearing Whizzer say the word _work_ in any context is still jarring. “Come on.  It’ll be, like, twenty minutes.” 

Truthfully he thinks that it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than twenty minutes if they actually wanna sort out their issues.  He doesn’t even know how to _begin_ digging through that pile of garbage.  But Whizzer seems to humour him. “Nine-fifteen,” he says. “I’m free then.”

“Fine.” At this point Marvin will take whatever Whizzer offers him. “Nine-fifteen tomorrow.”

“ _Just_ coffee,” Whizzer insists firmly.  As if Marvin’s gonna attempt to dick him down in a Starbucks.

“Yeah.”

There’s another pause, this one longer, and Marvin can almost see Whizzer’s face right now: eyes narrowed in contemplation, mouth twisting as he considers the proposal.  Finally, miraculously, he says, “Fine.  See you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Marvin says, his fist-pumping self from earlier in the week resurfacing.  Internally, this time. “See you.”

“Yeah.”

Whizzer hangs up.  Marvin does the same and tosses his phone on the couch.  Then he leans back and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes until green and purple patterns explode across his vision. _Phosphenes_ , they’re called, according to Mendel, who is full of useless information like that.  

He may as well have just finished running a marathon with the rate his pulse his going and how much he’s sweating.  Maybe he should consider therapy again, if a single phone call does this to him.

But he got what he wanted.  All he has to manage is a civil conversation with Whizzer.  Marvin can do that.  

Hopefully.

* * *

 

It’s nine fifteen the next morning, and Whizzer’s late.  Honestly, Marvin shouldn’t be surprised - he doesn’t think Whizzer’s been on time for anything in his entire life.  He always has a plethora of excuses too. _I woke up late.  My hair wouldn’t stay flat.  The bus was slow._ Generally the truth is he just doesn’t care enough to show up on time.

Another five minutes pass and for the first time Marvin broaches the idea that Whizzer’s stood him up.  Maybe he was more freaked out than he’d let on, and agreed to meet only to get Marvin off his ass.  It wouldn’t be surprising.

The only thing keeping him from losing all hope is the fact that Whizzer is the most bluntly honest person he’s ever met, and if there’s something he’s thinking, he’ll say it.  No matter how cruel.

Marvin glances up as the door opens and finally, thank God, Whizzer enters the store and joins the line.  Marvin does his best not to watch him like a creeper as he gets his coffee, instead pretending like his cuticles are suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

He only looks up again when the chair across from him is pulled back with a screech.  Whizzer drops an iced mocha on the table before taking a seat.  A huge pair of aviators hide his eyes from view.  Marvin has a suspicion that it’s an intimidation tactic, as this place is pretty dim as it is.  If it is, it’s working.

“Listen, Marvin,” Whizzer says, before Marvin can even get a word out.  He appears to wait to make sure he won’t be interrupted before continuing. “I don’t wanna do this again.”

Marvin’s stomach sinks just a little. “What do you mean?”

Whizzer taps his fingers in a discordant rhythm on the table, expression unreadable with those stupid sunglasses on. “I don’t want what we had,” he says, slowly, like he’s choosing the words carefully.

Okay, yeah, that one hurts.  But Marvin can look past the dashed hopes he’d been fostering (on the off chance that Whizzer might, just might, want what Marvin still semi-wanted himself) because he gets it.  He really does.  In fact, he tells Whizzer, “I get it,” just to show him how much he gets it.

“Good,” Whizzer says.  He’s nodding to himself. “Yeah, good.” 

Then he pushes his sunglasses up, so they’re resting on the top of his head.  This furthers Marvin’s assumption that they were there for intimidation purposes only. “So…what do you wanna talk about?”

Marvin has so many questions.  Most of them aren’t too nice, is the thing.  Marvin pokes the ice cubes in his cup with a coffee stirrer, watches them bob and grate against each other.  The tension in the air between them is palpable.  He can feel Whizzer’s rigidity from where he sits.

“Why’d you come back?” he resolves to ask.  Out of everything, this is probably the easiest to answer.

Whizzer seems almost…relieved by this. “Oh, New York City is doing this promo thing.  A bunch of us have gotta take pictures of attractions and whatever for the next couple months.” He gestures to the camera bag he dumped on the floor at his feet.  Marvin hadn’t even noticed it. “I’m in Manhattan for a bit.”

“Where you off to next?”

“Brooklyn.  Coney Island, really.”

 _What the fuck?_ Whizzer’s business trip is taking him down memory lane, as it appears.

They’d gone to Coney Island once.  It was when Whizzer was still the babysitter and (supposedly) nothing more, and Jason had _insisted_ that Whizzer tag along on a trip that was originally going to be between parents and son _only_.  

It had been a good day.  Whizzer and Trina had actually gotten along civilly for once, Jason had won a dozen useless stuffed things from the game booths (he was thrilled), and at night, when Trina and Jason were watching the fireworks up the beach, Marvin and Whizzer made out under the boardwalk.

It’s one of the memories he dwells on the most.  When he’s especially lonely.

Marvin shakes his head now. “That’s great,” he says.  He sounds the farthest thing from sincere.

He can feel Whizzer’s eyes burning into him, but he can’t force himself to look back.  Instead, he keeps his gaze locked on the tabletop.  He scratches his nails over the dents and etchings in the wood.

Whizzer sighs. “Why am I actually here?” he says. “You couldn’t give a shit about my job.”

“Who said that?”

“Come on, Marvin.” He’s clearly aggravated now. “I know you don’t actually want to catch up, so what am I doing here?”

“No, I do, I - I do.” Marvin lets out a short breath, bringing a hand up to run through his hair.  This isn’t how he wanted this conversation to go.  But he can’t seem to articulate what he wants.  It’s something he’s always had trouble with.

“I missed you,” he says truthfully.

There’s an incredulous note in Whizzer’s voice. “Why?” 

“I dated you for a reason,” Marvin retorts, but it’s half-hearted at best. “I like you.  I thought we were friends.”

He finally looks up from where he’s picking at the rim of his cup, and finds Whizzer staring at him, expression quizzical.  He seems surprised by what Marvin said.  Then he wrenches his gaze away, makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“I guess.” There’s something strange about his voice, but Marvin can’t identify what.  

“I just…I don’t know.  Wanted to know how you’d been.  You know?”

Whizzer still doesn’t look at him.  His jaw twitches. “I _don’t_ know, actually,” he says, and Marvin’s startled by the sudden ice in his voice. “Just before throwing me out of the house, you said you never wanted to see my ass again.  So it’s kinda suspicious that suddenly you want to know how I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, don’t you think?”

Anger, sudden and fierce, blooms in his chest.  Whizzer, fucking _infuriating_ Whizzer, always manages to bring out this side in him, and he hates it. “And what about you?” he snaps. “Showing up here after four fucking years, moving back in with Charlotte and Cordelia like _nothing happened._ You’re the one who left, Whizzer.  And you came back and like…weren’t going to _tell me._   I had to find out from _Cordelia.”_ Whizzer’s gaze snaps to him, and something like betrayal is in his eyes.  Now he knows what it feels like. “I think you owe me an explanation for all that.”

Whizzer turns his head so fast it could’ve given him whiplash.  He jabs an accusing finger at Marvin from across the table. “I owe you _shit.”_ His voice is shaking with barely contained anger.  All traces of coldness is gone, replaced with blazing eyes and hands that are clearly itching to wrap around Marvin’s throat. “I had my reasons for leaving.  You had _none_ for treating me like a fucking shit stain on the bottom of your shoe.”

“Enlighten me on your fucking reasons, then,” he sneers. “Because all it seems to me is that you were a fucking _coward_ who ran away instead of fixing his own mistakes _.”_

Whizzer’s eyes narrow dangerously, and now he’s holding the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip, it seemingly being the only thing restraining him from throwing a punch right here and now.  He opens his mouth, and Marvin mentally braces himself for the next spiked barb about to fly his way, but it doesn’t come.

It is only then that he notices all the eyes on them.  New Yorkers clearly in love with drama, trying to be subtle about their interest and failing immensely.  Apparently they hadn’t been as quiet as they thought.

 _So much for a civil discussion._ Marvin sinks back in his seat and takes a swig of coffee, the searing heat on his tongue distracting him from the anger coiling within him.  Whizzer gradually releases the table, expression slightly cowed.

As soon as the attention is diverted from them again - some barista is getting yelled at up front for using the wrong type of milk - Marvin says, “See, this is what I wanted to avoid.  Fucking arguing, _again.”_

Whizzer scoffs, folding his arms loosely over his chest. “Can we really avoid that, though?” he says, voice wry.  It never ceases to amaze Marvin how he can turn his emotions on and off like a faucet; one minute absolutely _seething_ with fury and the next calm and collected as anything. “It’s in us to fight, I think.”

He might be right.  Their relationship in the past seemed to be _fight, fuck, repeat,_ or vice versa, with the occasional sweet moment or gesture tossed in the mix in which actual feelings other than lust managed to manifest. “Not always,” Marvin says, almost wistfully, and he’s remembering those moments as he says it.

Whizzer says nothing, but he doesn’t have to.  His eyes are locked on the table, but they seem faraway.  Like he’s remembering, too.

Marvin sighs. “Ya think we should try this again?  When we’ve both…”

“Chilled a bit?” There’s a smile in Whizzer’s voice. “I guess.  Sure.”

He’s willing to _try._ It’s nothing certain, but it’s a start. “Meet here Thursday?  Same time.  We can talk then, okay?  Like…really _talk_.” 

Whizzer takes a while to respond, but eventually he nods.  His expression is almost unreadable, but his eyes are different.  Lighter than before, less shuttered. “Okay.”

* * *

 

Later that day, he pulls up in front of the lesbians’ building in Greenwich.  He knows Whizzer won’t be there - as he said, he’s at work until eight, and he needs someone to talk to.  Trina is out on all fronts Whizzer, Mendel is just… _Christ,_ Jason is eleven for fuck’s sake, so that leaves the lesbians.  Charlotte might be on one of her forty-eight hour shifts, but Cordelia should be there.  And if there’s anyone ready to talk, it’s her.

The door’s unlocked, and as he steps inside, he knows she’s here, and cooking.  There’s clattering coming from the kitchen, and the distinct smell of something burning hangs in the air.  She’s got another catering gig, as it appears.

The stench of smoke only intensifies as Marvin approaches, and he leans against the kitchen doorway.  Cordelia’s standing at the counter, apron tied around her waist, surrounded by several hundred piles of dirty dishes and assorted foods.  She’s leaning over the counter on her elbows, staring intently at a Kosher cookbook.  Probably borrowed from Trina.

“Watcha doing?” asks Marvin.

Cordelia throws him a casual glance, a nod in greeting, not even surprised at his sudden appearance. “Oh, y’know,” she mutters. “Practicing recipes for Rosh Hashanah.”

That was unexpected. “It’s not til September, though.”

“I _know_.” She rolls her eyes, seemingly offended at the assumption that she doesn’t know her Jewish holidays, even after being with Charlotte for years. “But do you want to be served baked shit?” She wipes her hands clean on her apron before smoothing back her hair. “Whizzer said my matzo balls tasted like biting into a toenail, so I clearly need some practice.”

Ah, classic Whizzer. “Dick.”

Cordelia mock-glares at him. “As if you haven’t said worse.”

She takes in a breath, apparently prepared to recount the numerous grievous insults he’d had for her cooking in the past, but she’s cut off by the sound of the oven timer going off.  In a flurry, she jams her hands into oven mitts and pulls a pan from the bottom rack, smoke billowing out around her.  Whatever it is, it’s more than a little singed on top.

As she sets it down on a cooling pad, she says, “ _So._ A little birdie told me you were to be with Whizzer this morning.  How’d that go?”

Marvin can only assume the _little birdie_ was Whizzer himself. “Fine,” he says, choosing to omit the part where they almost brawled in the middle of Starbucks.  Minor details. “We got coffee.”

“The biggest cliché in the book,” she muses, tugging the thing in the pan out by its wax paper and setting it on a plate. “Was his drink hot or cold?”

“Huh?”

“His drink,” she repeats. “Was it hot or cold?”

It takes him a moment to recall, kind of reeling at the suddenness of the question. “Cold.  I guess?  It had ice, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, great!  So he was actually interested!” At Marvin’s blank look, she decides to elaborate. “Whizzer hates hot coffee.” She picks up the plate and carries it over to the fridge so the flat, cake-like thing - _kugel? -_ can cool faster. “So if he gets it hot, he can make a quick getaway without sacrificing much.  But if he got it cold, he was willing to stay and listen.  It’s the way he works.”

Marvin nods numbly, wondering if he should’ve known that already.  He’s learning all kinds of stuff about Whizzer today.  _What the fuck?_

“…good.” He blinks suddenly, realizing Cordelia’s still talking. “So you cleared stuff up between you two?  I woulda thought it’d take longer that that.  That’s good.”

Ah. “Well, that’s the thing -”

Her sigh cuts him off. “Ya didn’t do it, did you.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and she doesn’t even wait for a response before continuing. “Well, I kind of expected that, to be honest.  You’re both pussies.”

Marvin knows she’s sort of right, but he’s still slightly offended. “We _will,”_ he says, feeling the need to defend himself even a little. “We just need some time.  It’s the second time we’ve seen each other since…y’know.  We started arguing.  Agreed to try it another day.”

“You’re both hopeless.” She shakes her head. “Can’t even last ten minutes without fighting.  How’d you ever manage to get together in the first place?”

 _Too many drinks and a taxi ride._ “No idea.”

He doesn’t stick around long after that, considering _he_ actually has work that he should probably be doing and Cordelia is not even close to being done experimenting.  It’s only after watching her meticulously zest a lemon for ten full minutes that he actually excuses himself to go, turning back to the foyer.

“Oh, before you go!” Marvin half-turns to see Cordelia scrambling toward him, holding the plate from the fridge and a fork.  He watches as she sets it on the little table inside the door and uses the fork to cut off a little piece. “Try this,” she says, holding it out to him. “It’s carrot kugel.”

At least he could recognize it.  That was a start.  He takes the fork from her, and to his credit, he only hesitates a few seconds before he, as per her instruction, tries it.

Alas, maybe Whizzer wasn’t exaggerating when he said the matzo balls tasted like toenail. “There’s room for improvement,” Marvin tells her weakly.

She lets out a low, guttural groan, head lolling forward, curls falling into her eyes. “God, I slaved away all afternoon…” She trails off with a huff, snatching the fork out of his hand and sweeping back into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Hope you have more luck with Whizzer than I do with this fucking train-wreck.”

This makes him snicker a little, and the clattering noises from the kitchen resume at an even louder cadence as he makes his exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually changed my Tumblr url to swayinginphosphorescence, if you're wanting to find me there ;))

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!!! my Tumblr is jackeddoritos if you're interested. I'll probably have chapter 2 up by next weekend if my school schedule allows it :/


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